Last Whisper

by Carlene Thompson

  “I have been.”

  “I guess you’re here visiting her today.”

  Brooke paused. She’d already pulled this near stranger more deeply into her life than she had anyone for years except Stacy and Jay, but she heard herself opening up to him almost before she realized what she was saying. She told him all about Greta’s stroke and the woman’s claim that Zach had come into her room last night, telling her he intended to “get” Brooke. “She says that’s what caused her stroke,” Brooke said. “All the medical professionals seem to believe she was dreaming or the stroke jumbled her thoughts, but I believe her,” she ended firmly.

  Brooke focused on Vincent’s eyes, waiting to see the first glimmer of doubt, the first desperate struggle for something insincere yet comforting to say. Instead, she saw in them only surprise and deep thought. Finally he said, “They already explained the security system to me on my tour. Now how did Tavell hang around in here unseen all night until the doors were unlocked and the alarm turned off?”

  “You’re not going to tell me Grossmutter dreamed it or her thoughts are jumbled?”

  “No. You know her intimately and something she said convinced you that she’s not mixed-up. That’s enough for me.”

  Brooke felt a wave of relief and gratitude wash over her. She’d expected him to put up an argument, to tell her Greta had just imagined something and frightened her when she was already agitated. Instead, he had simply taken her word without explanation. He believed in her, and for some reason, she felt almost exultant. She was being silly, she told herself. Silly from nerves and anxiety. Maybe he was just one of those people who never rationalized bizarre explanations.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked. “You look like you’re disappointed that I believe you.”

  “I just didn’t expect you to. I don’t think anyone else does.”

  “I’m not just anyone else.” Vincent reached toward his pocket for a pack of cigarettes, forgetting he’d decided to quit three weeks ago. Thanks to nicotine patches, he hadn’t really wanted one until right now. He remembered he wasn’t allowed to smoke in the nursing home, and he picked up his cup of execrable coffee to keep his hands busy rather than longing to hold a long, menthol cigarette.

  “Brooke, you know I write books about true crimes,” he began. “When I first started interviewing murderers, one of the things that shocked me was their desire to keep the game going, for a better phrase. Not all of them, of course, but quite a few. Many aren’t satisfied with having taken a life. They want to keep their adrenaline flowing by torturing the families of their victims. It gives them a rush.”

  “That’s a hell of a way to get excitement,” Brooke said sadly.

  “I agree, but these aren’t normal people. They’re sociopaths and psychopaths. Take Tavell, for instance. He could kill you without the frills—the rose, the notes. But just killing you wouldn’t give him the gratification that mentally torturing you does. He’s probably decided that if you hadn’t appeared from upstairs the night he killed your mother, you wouldn’t have distracted him, slowed him down, and he wouldn’t have gotten caught. And he certainly hasn’t forgiven you for your testimony in court. So, in his mind, it’s your fault he’s been suffering in prison all these years. Now it’s your turn to suffer, and for him, suffering means torturing your grandmother, whom he knows you love so much, as well as torturing you.” He paused. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to deliver a lecture. It must be all the caffeine in this coffee.”

  “Then keep drinking it, because you just made perfect sense.”

  Vincent grinned. “I do make perfect sense sometimes, but not very often. According to my father, rarely.”

  “Your father is proud of you. He just doesn’t know how to show it.”

  “You’re sure about that?” Vincent asked lightly but with an undertone of doubt.

  “Yes. I can see it in his eyes when he looks at you.”

  Vincent raised his eyebrows. “Are you trying to bolster my confidence, Miss Yeager?”

  “No, I’m just observant. Besides, I don’t think your confidence really needs bolstering. Deep down, you know your father is proud of you.”

  “Deep down, I’m not sure of that at all.” He gave her a slightly lopsided smile. “But let’s get back to the important subject—Zach Tavell. I don’t know why everyone you talk to seems to think it was impossible that he came in before the doors were locked, hid in a storage room for a few hours, came out to terrorize Greta, then returned to his hiding place or found a new one.” Vincent drained his coffee, looked at Brooke with an expression of a comrade. “So, we proceed with the assumption that Tavell was here.”

  We, Brooke thought. Vincent had said “we proceed,” which meant unlike everyone else, he believed her. Suddenly, she didn’t feel so alone. Suddenly, she didn’t feel quite as frightened as she had just an hour earlier.

  ten

  1

  Eunice Dormer leaned back in her recliner, propping her swollen house-slippered feet on the battered ottoman, and listened to the supposedly heart-stirring music that introduced her favorite soap opera. She’d been a fan of the show for almost twenty years, but the last few months, her interest had begun to flag. Over half of the characters seemed to be under eighteen, and the show’s vixen was not only in the midst of ending her eighth marriage but also, even worse, showing her age everywhere except her forehead, lately frozen by Botox.

  As the first scene opened, a fifteen-year-old couple sat on Astroturf edging an impossibly clear pond while they whined about their parents not understanding their undying love. Eunice sighed in annoyance and reached for one of her clove cigarettes. She smoked them partly because she craved their pungent, sweet taste and smell but also because she thought smoking them gave her an air of the exotic. Let other women puff away on their ordinary Vantages or Virginia Slims.

  Long ago, Eunice’s beautiful mother with her many boyfriends and sexy clothes had smoked clove cigarettes. She’d gotten Eunice started on them when she was ten. Liz, as she insisted on being called instead of Mom, had thought a ten-year-old girl smoking clove cigarettes and sipping singlemalt scotch was hilarious. Her boyfriends had, too, before they shooed away Eunice so they could have some private time in the bedroom with Liz.

  Liz had died long ago, but Eunice’s addiction to cigarettes and scotch lived on, although Harry had allowed her to continue buying clove cigarettes only if she compensated by drinking a cheaper scotch. A much cheaper scotch. Harry had been a disappointment to Eunice, but being uneducated, plain bordering on homely with her equine features, a diabetic, and an alcoholic, she’d had to take what she could get. Twenty years ago, Harry had been the only man even vaguely interested in marrying her, and that was because she was pregnant with his child. The child had lived only until age three, when it died of leukemia, but the marriage had drudged on for another seventeen mind-numbing years. They had nothing in common, but Eunice was an excellent cook and Harry was good at giving her the insulin injections she couldn’t bear to give herself. Also, both knew that other partners weren’t lining up for either of them.

  After her child’s death, Eunice had slipped into a deep depression that lasted for several years. Some men would have left her, but Harry rode it out, although she knew he’d turned to other women to “help him through the bad time.” So, she’d stayed with him, even though their marriage made her feel as if her own life had turned to gray, with no excitement, no closeness, no passion. Just tolerance. At first, Eunice had tried to add a bit of excitement to her life by taking an interest in the tenants of the apartment buildings at which Harry was superintendent. Her interest was casual for a while, but over the years living vicariously through the tenants had become more intense, and during the last two years it had become an obsession for Eunice.

  In fact, that obsession was tightening its grip on her. Right now it was becoming intolerable. Eunice knew she was too nervous to sit quietly in her apartment one more minute. But she didn’t want to take a walk
. The day was hot and humid. Even if it had been cooler, though, she wouldn’t have been tempted. People on the street weren’t interesting or diverting in the way she knew she needed to be diverted now. People in public knew they were on view, being observed. Only people who thought they had total privacy enthralled Eunice. Poking into people’s lives preoccupied her and, luckily, she had the perfect means to accomplish her goal—Harry’s set of master keys to the apartments. The set of keys represented the gateway to a dozen worlds full of people with captivating surprises and intriguing secrets.

  Harry had caught her in an apartment one afternoon last winter and given her hell, telling her that if the couple came home and found her, he’d lose his job, like she didn’t already realize that possibility and hadn’t been careful to choose the apartment of a couple who’d gone to Pennsylvania to visit family for Christmas. She’d solemnly promised never to do such a stupid thing again. She’d laid low for a while, which had been pure misery, but Harry hadn’t remained vigilant for long. Since February, when he’d dropped his guard, she’d invaded apartments at least a dozen times, but she’d been more careful to do so only when she’d been certain Harry would be out of the building for at least a couple of hours. Fortunately, Harry wasn’t any more heedful about always taking his keys with him than he had been about keeping his eye on her.

  Eunice stamped out her cigarette in the ashtray beside her recliner, got up, and moved in slow motion to the pantry, where Harry’s master keys hung on the Peg-Board. She hoped if she walked sluggishly enough, she could talk herself out of her desire for “exploration” by the time she reached the pantry, but her halfhearted try at self-control failed. Five minutes later she climbed the stairs to the third floor, clutching the key ring, forcing herself to maintain her usual leisurely gait, trying not to let her eyes dart around furtively. By the time she reached her goal, her heart pounded and her mouth had gone dry. But she’d made it to the apartment she’d always wanted to invade but never dared to enter—Stacy Corrigan’s.

  Eunice had taken an instant dislike of Stacy the first time she saw her striding across the lobby with her tall, lithe body, big breasts, long curly hair, and air of ultimate confidence. Stacy wasn’t beautiful like Eunice’s mother, Liz, had been, but she had that same aura of self-pride and tremendous self-confidence. When Eunice had told Harry she thought Stacy was a bitch, he’d snapped at her that she was jumping to conclusions when she’d never even talked to the younger woman. Besides, didn’t Stacy always smile and say hello to Eunice when they ran into each other in the lobby and hadn’t she even asked how Eunice was feeling a couple of times, instead of ignoring Eunice like old Mrs. Kelso? And after all, Stacy was Brooke Yeager’s best friend, and Eunice liked Brooke. So why would Brooke be friends with a woman who was a jerk?

  Harry had almost convinced Eunice she was wrong about Stacy until suddenly Eunice realized Harry’s defense of her had been a bit impassioned. And he stared at Stacy even more than he did at other pretty women in the building, like Brooke. Also, he’d been gone on mysterious fix-it jobs around the building more than usual lately. Eunice was certain Harry was having an affair, and she’d begun to think it was with Stacy. Maybe Stacy hadn’t actually given in and slept with him, but she was probably taking advantage of his interest. The more Eunice mulled it over in her mind, the more she became convinced this was a definite possibility. She just had to know for sure.

  Eunice didn’t think Brooke had gone back to work, but she’d passed her in the lobby this morning and Brooke had said hello, asked about Eunice’s health, because she never forgot about Eunice’s diabetes, then said, “I’ll be back this afternoon. If any flower deliveries come for me, please see that they’re left in the lobby.” Flower deliveries? Harry had told her how upset Brooke had been about a note being in her apartment a few nights ago, but she didn’t know anything about a flower.

  Brooke must have given Robert Eads a key to her place and he’d left the note, Eunice decided. Robert was great looking and polite, but Eunice had always gotten an odd feeling from him the few times she’d run into him with Brooke. Eunice had told Harry that Robert didn’t look at Brooke the way a man should look at a pretty woman. Harry had asked if she thought she was a psychic like those crazy people on television who claimed to know all about you by just hearing your voice on the phone.

  One of the bulbs had burned out in an overhead light, making the hall dimmer than usual. Harry would have to replace it this evening, but right now Eunice was glad for the added concealment of shadows. She slipped the key in the apartment door lock. It turned easily; she opened the door about a foot, then slipped in and silently shut the door behind her. She took a deep, relieved breath and looked around.

  As Eunice expected, the apartment was immaculate. Moss green and chocolate brown furniture sat on the tan carpet, and the few lamps and knickknacks were arranged with precision on end tables. Eunice far preferred the splashy colors of Brooke’s apartment and the air of casual comfort with a few magazines tossed around, a couple of houseplants, some CDs and DVDs piled beside the entertainment center. Brooke’s apartment was full of life, Eunice thought. Stacy’s had a stillness, an air of waiting, that made Eunice jumpy. She wondered how the exuberant Jay felt in here. Stiff and uncomfortable in his own home, probably, but he’d put up with anything for Stacy. Eunice could tell he was wildly in love with her.

  Eunice crept across the living room to the bedroom. Here she found the same tan carpet, a double bed covered with a moss green spread and pale green decorative pillows, a gleaming maple dresser and chest of drawers, and matching bedside tables. Both tables had lamps, but only one bore a book. Eunice hurried over and picked it up. It was a hardcover called Black Moon.

  She flipped over the book again. Black Moon by Vincent Lockhart. Vincent, she thought. That was a nice name. Lockhart. Eunice Lockhart. “Mrs. Eunice Lockhart,” she said aloud like an adolescent girl trying out the name of a boy on whom she had a crush.

  With a jolt, she thought of fingerprints. She’d left her fingerprints all over the book and Jay was a policeman! Then she relaxed. Certainly Jay didn’t check the room for fingerprints regularly. Of course, even if he did, he wouldn’t do it himself. He’d call in a crime scene investigation unit. Eunice knew about these things. She’d learned from watching television. And a CSI unit wouldn’t search the room unless there had been a crime here, and there hadn’t been. She let the trapped air of fright out of her lungs but quickly laid down the book, pulled up the bottom up her dress, and wiped it over both sides of the novel’s jacket, just to be safe.

  Eunice turned away from the bedside table, her gaze falling on Stacy’s jewelry box—a large, square maple piece holding about ten drawers with gold handles. The box was obviously a nice piece, which had probably cost nearly a hundred dollars. Eunice thought of her old, skinned pink box—not even half the size of Stacy’s—and felt furious. Of course, she didn’t have much to put in her box. Harry wasn’t one to give jewelry for presents. At least to her. Maybe Stacy was a different matter.

  I swear, if he said I couldn’t have a new microwave oven because he spent money on jewelry for that silicone-enhanced floozy, I’ll kill him, Eunice thought in a rage. She marched over to the jewelry box and jerked a drawer so hard it flew out of the box and the contents fell on the floor. Eunice crawled to pick up each piece and place it neatly in the drawer just like she thought it had been originally. As she did, she looked at everything and saw that it was all delicate and sophisticated. The very few times Harry had given Eunice jewelry, it was large and gaudy, which he thought was beautiful. No, Harry definitely hadn’t picked any of this tasteful stuff, Eunice thought, half-glad, half-disappointed. So far she had no evidence of an affair between Stacy and Harry.

  Eunice moved on to the double closets. Jay’s held three suits of fairly good quality, two pairs of khaki pants, four pairs of jeans, dress shirts and T-shirts, and four pair of shoes, the running shoes looking in desperate need of replacement, as did his
jogging suit. Stacy’s closet was more interesting. For one thing, not one piece of clothing was out of place. The sweaters all hung together, the blouses together, the dresses together, the slacks together, the jeans together. And clearly Stacy had a penchant for shoes. Eunice counted twenty-one pairs, all placed in a large shoe organizer.

  Eunice knew Jay couldn’t afford so many fine clothes, but Stacy got a discount at Chantal’s, where she worked. It must be wonderful to be around such finery all the time, Eunice thought. She stroked a soft cashmere sweater, then couldn’t resist taking it out of the closet and holding it against her flat chest. She’d never had a cashmere sweater in her life and it felt like heaven, even if she didn’t have to glance in the mirror to know it wouldn’t look as good on her as it did on Stacy. Eunice had a sudden urge to steal it, which she quickly quelled. Somehow, Stacy would know who’d taken her sweater and all hell would break loose. Harry might even leave Eunice, and then what would she do? She hadn’t even finished high school. She could try working at a fast-food restaurant, but her legs always swelled and gave out after two hours of standing. No, she had to hang on to Harry. He wasn’t much, but she wouldn’t let Stacy or anyone else take him away from her.

  A framed eight-by-ten color photo sat on the dresser. Jay and Stacy posed against a background of heavily wooded mountains. He was sitting on a large rock, wearing a pale blue shirt under a red sweater. His sandy hair was mussed and his cheeks ruddy. Behind him stood Stacy, her curly hair long and wild, her arms crossed over Jay’s chest. They both beamed, looking like the happiest couple in the world. Of course, people could fake smiles, Eunice reasoned, but their smiles seemed real.